


As Watchers hang upon the East

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Caroling, Deck the Halls, F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 10:52:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8798023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: His mother had always used a professional decorator for the holidays, so his first goal was not falling and breaking anything, ornaments or tibias.





	

“There, right there…oh, just a little higher, you’re so close—ah, that’s perfect, just like that, easy, oh, I love--”

“Mary! What the actual fuck?” Jed whirled around to where Mary stood almost right behind him, unfairly sexy in a red plaid flannel bathrobe and bare feet, flushed and sweet smelling after her shower “washing off the hospital stink,” ostensibly supervising him hanging garlands of holly from the mantle and winding through the mahogany bannister of their newly purchased, old gingerbread-y Victorian.

“What? I was just trying to give you some constructive feedback,” she said, batting her eyelashes in a way she’d mock in a movie. He never pointed it out because she might stop doing it and it was adorable.

“No, madam, I think you were emphatically not doing that,” he said. It was impossible to tell if she had put on some aggressively disinteresting pajamas with sheep or chickadees, a more enticing camisole and silky little shorts, or, most desirably, nothing at all under that robe but in addition to decking the halls, it appeared she wanted him to find out and he was happy, she’d find more than happy, to oblige.

“So, what was I doing then?” she asked, smiling at him, so lovely and joyfully provocative. He’d already liked Christmas, but Mary was quickly making it his favorite holiday, even though it seemed like it was a colossal amount of work the way she wanted to celebrate. There were cards to write and Secret Santas, adopting a family and agreeing to wrap presents at the hospital as a fundraiser for the Child Life program, parties to attend and plan, gifts (that she tracked on a spreadsheet), and a Christmas dinner to drive to in Manchester where carols would be performed; he wasn’t sure if that was a promise or a threat, but he supposed he’d find out (if Granny Glad was there, it might be both but she made a mean egg nog and was surprisingly considerate about matching a second virgin batch for Jed to make merry with which also made for some amazing French toast, so win-win).

“You were being a fucking tease,” he said, letting himself be a little wolfish in the advance but keeping his hands gentle on her waist and not making even the slightest move to unknot the belt.

“No, I wasn’t,” she insisted, leaning in, shifting a little and then moving his right hand to the loose knot before reaching up to touch his shoulder, to stroke her fingers along the firm line of his trapezius.

“I say you were,” he said, breathing the words along her ear, pressing them into her throat, all sweet, clean woman, damp tendrils escaping from the loose bun she’d bundled back after towel-drying her hair.

“Oh, you’re wrong, Jed,” she sighed. “Because you did do a beautiful job hanging that garland, you got it just the way I wanted…and it’s not a tease if I’m trying to get you into bed, oh yes, so good,” she said as his hands parted the robe and found she had had the best of intentions, and wore nothing but a pair of boyshorts that barely covered her and which she wriggled out of within moments. It hadn’t been very long since they’d made love, a day or two, but it had been too long, his brain declared, too long without Mary’s breasts in his hands and that curve of her waist into hip, nothing softer than her skin except for the silky sounds she made when words wouldn’t arrange themselves in her mouth, crowded out by the taste of him. He never seemed to want anything as much as her softness but she was equally eager to have him hard in her hand or her mouth, between her willing thighs; when he said things like that to her, she canted her hips upwards and made more Anglo-Saxon demands, “now” and “want” and “fuck, oh love.”

“There, right there, oh, so close, perfect--” she was saying again, the flannel robe and a hand-knit throw spread out beneath her, those dark eyes hazy but aware of him holding her, how she held him between her yoga-toned thighs, the rasp of his five o’clock shadow on the tops of her breasts, the delicate skin on the underside of her jaw.

“Not quite perfect—you said you wanted to get me into bed,” he managed. It was more difficult that he’d thought, she felt too good, familiar but still shocking him with the pleasure of her body, and the lights on the Christmas tree dappled them, reflected in her eyes like candles.

“I said trying…the floor is an…adequate, ah, substitute,” she whispered in his ear. “No more fa la la, deck the halls…Jedediah…”

“You’re making Christmas…so… dirty, oh, Christ, yes, baby,” he said, doing his best to match her, his hand dropping from her hip as she raised her leg, drew him tighter to her, the pressure of her heel on his thigh the most irresistible goad.

It was far easier to attend to one goal and she was very helpful, kissing him and nipping at his lower lip, his ear, whatever she could reach as he moved to the rhythm of the carol, getting ahead of the lyrics in their excitement. When she came after him, calling for him as he held her closer, closer everywhere, her cheeks were red as holly and when she lay against him, sated and so beautiful, he could not help half-singing, “Follow me in merry measure,” and she laughed.

“That’s Granny Glad’s favorite carol, you know, we always sing it first.” She was a tease, his Mary, and his cheeks would be red as holly with the memory of this, though she’d make sure he could blame it on the new cashmere pullover and the hot mulled cider, her parents’ constant war over the thermostat. Granny Glad didn’t miss a trick, but Mary was her favorite grandchild and Jed wasn’t too worried about catching any flak from her when she saw how happy Mary was and how that was his first and last intention.

**Author's Note:**

> This was for the prompt "holly." After a few darker submissions, I tried to go light (and smutty!) with this one, to round out the pantheon of holiday stories we're accruing in the fandom. And I'm half in love with my creation, Granny Glad.
> 
> The title is from Emily Dickinson, who you'd think might blush, but she did write a poem called "A single screw of flesh" so there you go...


End file.
